The Devil You Know
by ICanSeeYourFace
Summary: She supposes this is a way for them to be even. She's been patching him up for a few weeks now. Tit for tat. Four-part fic dealing with Matt and Claire's relationship over the first season.
1. Part 1

**A/N** : I've been absent for a loooooong time. I've mostly posted DW stories over at Teaspoon, but I am back with a four-part fic for Marvel's Daredevil. I fell into the pit a few days ago, and well, stuff happened. First posted this on my tumblr account, but figured I could upload it here, too. Spoilers for episode 4, so proceed at your own risk! :)

 **Disclaimer** : I own nothing, Jon Snow.

* * *

The sound echoes through her mind for hours afterwards. She's used to seeing damage inflicted on the human body, used to seeing carnage. One would think treating injuries dulls the senses. As it turns out, inflicting them is a whole different ballgame. She's never been particularly violent. Sure, there were a few cat fights in high school. Couple of slaps, a few scratches, lots and lots of curse words thrown around. Looked worse than it was.

Nothing like picking up a baseball bat and whacking a guy over the head.

It's instinct. He's trapped in a vise of pain. The bat's just lying there. Her feet move before she can even think, her still taped together hands picking it up, her body angling and then moving. Time stands still for a moment, the wooden club swinging through the air. She has time to wonder if this is what it's like to be Mike, hearing things that no one else could possibly hear. Wood through air. Wood connecting to organic tissue. Wood cracking something (she knows she should immediately know what, but she can't connect the dots).

And just like that, with a dull thud and the crunching of bones, she's snapped back to reality. The bat drops from her hands, and she falls to pieces. It's a combination of relief that it's all over and fear for what she has done. There's a scream trapped inside her, but it refuses to dislodge from her throat. Her feet stumble over each other, and all of a sudden, he's there. Strong arms embrace her, and she's tucked safely against the crook of his neck and that dark, ever-calm voice fills the small safe haven.

"It's okay."

It's two words. Two small, simple words, but they dislodge the scream, bursting from her lips in shrill sobs.

"I'm here. I have you."

He lets her go, only to cup her face, bringing their foreheads together. He's still wearing his mask, but she can almost imagine his features underneath it. Eyes closed, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Like he's trying to transfer some sense of calm and comfort. _It's over_. Over the echoing sound of the bat hitting a head, she tells herself it's over, repeating it in hopes she will start to believe it.

She barely remembers being led outside, of being ushered through dark alleys and shady backstreets. It's over. It's over. When they stop, it takes her a few seconds to realize they've entered a building, an apartment, and she's been pushed down onto a stool. Mike exits a room to her left, carrying a small metal box, setting it down on the table next to her. She's more than a little amazed at the ease with which he moves around the apartment. If she didn't know him, she would never guess he couldn't see. His steps never falter, the way his fingers reach out to touch the table before setting down the box seems a natural gesture rather than a way to make sure he won't miss the mark.

His hand lightly touches her chin, tilting her head upwards. The mask is gone, and his eyes somehow find hers as he carefully pats her bloodied face with a wet cloth. She knows it's just luck. He can't actually see her, but this incidental eye contact, it calms her. There's a small smile, barely discernible, on his lips. It's like a promise, a deal between the two of them. She supposes this is a way for them to be even. She's been patching him up for a few weeks now. Tit for tat.

"This isn't gonna feel great."

He's cleaning up the nasty cut above her eyebrow, and she winces in pain. How many times has she done this, applied the same pressure, seen the same response in the faces of her patients? His fingers work nimbly over her forehead, carefully patting and applying the butterfly band aid. Mike tells her about his dad. Boxer, got knocked down a lot. He's had practice, he says.

"I'm sorry."

He feels guilty. His voice is even, he tries to be matter-of-fact, but she can tell. He feels this is his fault, and while she probably should let him stew in his angst, she can't let him take full credit. She could've ignored Santino when he came knocking on her door, frantic about a man in the dumpster out back. She's not really had worse, this will probably be the worst thing to happen to her for a long time, but he doesn't need to know that. Her attempts to alleviate his guilt doesn't bite (does it ever?). He's trying, of course he is, but to what end? He feels like he's not making a difference, no matter how many people he saves, he end up hurting just as many, or even more.

"Feel my heart."

She places his hand over her still wildly beating heart, the light pressure of his fingertips against her skin sending sparks flying through her.

"What does it tell you?"

"That' you're scared."

It's an understatement. This neighborhood that has been her home is now a threatening place, full of shadows that she will now shy away from. There are forces working in Hell's Kitchen that are way beyond its citizens. Tonight, as horrible as it was, showed her just how important this crazy man in front of her is. They need him.

"But you can do something about it. For all of us, Mike."

Something flashes across his face.

"Matthew."

He hesitates, and she's struck silent. _Is he..?_

"My name is Matthew."

The silence that follows is deafening. Tit for tat. He is risking a lot by telling her his name. Sure, she still doesn't know his last name, what he does when he is not a masked vigilante, but having his real name cements something in the strange friendship they have built. It's been an unbalanced friendship, in which she has known so little. But now, the man in front of her is more of a man and less of an enigma. Matthew, blind, courageous, reckless, in need of a moral compass. Her friend.

"Matthew," she repeats, breaking the silence, trying out the name.

"You can call me Matt," he offers, fiddling with his hands in a surprising display of nervousness.

"Matt."

"You must be exhausted. Go take a shower, I'll make the bed ready for you. You don't want the couch, trust me."

As if on cue, the huge billboard outside the window lights up, the flowing ad with the cherry flower dancing across the screen. She snickers, and gets up from the stool. Matt points toward the room where he got the first aid kit. _It's over_. She quickly showers, letting the hot water wash away the remaining blood and grime.

Matt is already on the couch when she exits, eyes closed (but something tells her he is not asleep at all). She pads across the room to the open bedroom, where the cover is neatly turned down with an old gray flannel t-shirt resting on top of the pillow. It's only for tonight, and he's her friend. She'll go back to her friend's place tomorrow, to make sure her friend's cat is still alive. If it's not too bad, she can probably stay there until she finds something new. Or possibly go back to her old place, if Matt deems it safe. The mental list of all she has to do tomorrow grows longer and longer. Gauze bandage. Antiseptic. Save whatever furniture that can be saved. Milk. Cat food. Allergy medicine. Suture, needles… Scratch that. A completely new first aid kit. Medical grade stuff. Matt's gonna need it, the way he keeps walking into danger on an almost daily basis.

"Matt?" she calls softly into the dusky apartment.

Outside, the ad flashes again.

"Yeah?"

"You really should consider that armor."

In the silence of the night, she can hear him snicker.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

 **A/N** : Feel free to review and make me a happy lil' hobbit!


	2. Part 2

**A/N** : Daredevil keeps on happening in my mind. This fic will become a four-part story with short(-ish) chapters dealing with Matt and Claire over the course of the first season. This chapter contains spoilers for the episodes "World on Fire" and "Condemned".

 **Disclaimer** : I own nothing, Jon Snow.

* * *

For a couple of weeks now, every time the small phone tucked in her pocket has buzzed, a strange feeling of dread and joy has coursed through her. A phone call means he's alive. A phone call means he's injured. It's been a bearer of news she hasn't quite been able to identify as either good or bad. Tonight is different. The small buzz still sends shivers down her spine, but it's followed by anger.

After his cold parting words, she just stood there, frozen to the spot. _You're right. You shouldn't._ In a way, Claire could understand his anger, his deepseated need to go out and bring justice to those who broke the law. Their conversation the night before had been revealing, in a way. Matt felt so guilty, but she couldn't quite understand why. The evil that festered in Hell's Kitchen was not his fault.

The suffocating silence in the dark, empty apartment finally got to her. She had thought she could reach him. For a moment, an instant, a single kiss, she'd thought she could help him. Tending to his wounds was one thing. Stitches, bandaids, antiseptic… It was all easy, but Matt was battling something that no suture or butterfly bandage could force to heal. She couldn't help him if he didn't want to.

Returning to the hospital was the only thing she could come up with that might take her mind off of current circumstances. They'd need every available nurse, and if Shirley tried to send her home, she wasn't above wrestling her boss to the ground. She needed to do something.

Her rotten luck, unfortunately, seemed determined to follow her.

Shirley was no problem, but she has barely even laid out what she needed to tend to Mrs. Cardenas head wound when the familiar ring tone cuts through the air. Shit. Claire quickly excuses herself, miraculously finding the nearest stairwell empty. Afterwards, she wonders if the night would've been better if she hadn't answered.

It's like something straight out of the late night sucky actions movies she sometimes dozes off to after a long shift at the hospital. The noble doctor having to save the life of their enemy. She scoffs at those scenes. Now she's in the middle of one, technically by proxy, but still. And in the middle, they somehow still find time to be snarky. She's still angry with him, and he's, well… Matt. The seconds of hesitation are the longest in her life. Ultimately she can't let her anger stand in the way of possible justice.

At least the bastard could feel every second of the flare burning his flesh.

When he all of a sudden hangs up on her, she can't even bring herself to be angry at first. It's so typical, and they're back to square one, where he's holding all the cards. She stomps back in, shoving her way past gurneys and wheelchairs until she's back at Mrs. Cardenas' bed, testily muttering "I got this" to the nurse preparing the needle and suture. It's not her best work, and that irritates Claire even more. As soon as she's done, she instructs her co-worker on how to proceed, hastily saying goodbye to the elderly patient before moving on.

She expects him to call again, to have her play phone M.D again, or even to let her know that he is okay, if she should expect him to come stumbling home all bloodied and broken. She works through the night, her nerves on edge as she waits for the call to come, but her phone stays silent. It's not until she showering in the locker room that she hears the phone ring. Part of her wants to answer, but she ends up letting it ring. She's tired, she's angry, nothing good could come out of a conversations between the two of them now.

 _You have one new message: "It's me, I'm… I'm okay. Vladimir's dead."_

Nothing else. Claire listens to it over and over again. _It's me, I'm… I'm okay. Vladimir's dead._ She listens to it until his voice sounds like nothing but garble in her tired ears. It's only then she realizes she's got nowhere to sleep tonight. Her place is trashed, her friend's place is trashed. Massaging her temples, she considers her options. Go to Matt's place, and run the risk of making things worse. Not an option. Santino… asleep. His mother would kill her. Sighing heavily, she walks across the street. There's a cheap motel just down the road, often used by patients' next of kin during long stays. It's not the Hilton, but it's a bed and no fighting waiting for her. Considering the days she's had, splurging on a room for the night sounds pretty damn justified.

The night manager doesn't bat an eye when he sees her split lip and the scar on her forehead peeking out from behind her hair. He's probably seen a lot of it, people who have lost their homes, either temporarily or permanently because of tonight's explosions. Claire signs in under a fake name, relieved to have a bit of cash on her to pay for the room. The night manager hands her the keys to her room without a second look.

The bed is a lumpy mattress with worn covers. At least the pillows are ok. But it's not the uncomfortable bed that keeps her awake. Claire's mind refuses to let go of their fight. She can't deny the fact that she wanted the moment from this morning to continue. Waking up, wearing his robe, kissing… There are worse things to aspire to. There had been something brewing between them for a while now, and their kiss seemed to confirm that they both wanted to explore that something. Then shit hit the fan. She keeps repeating the last part of their conversation, unable to get it out of her head. It's still repeating when she finally drifts off to sleep.

 _"I just don't think I can let myself fall in love with someone who's… so damn close to becoming what he hates."_

 _"You're right. You shouldn't."_

Maybe he's right. Maybe she shouldn't.

* * *

 **A/N** : Make me a happy hobbit and leave a review! ^_^


	3. Part 3

**A/N** : Thank you so much for reviewing, each and every one of them sends me through the roof with joy. I'm really happy that you love the story, and I'm actually a bit sad that there's one one part left. I do have another oneshot in mind, but I'll post it as an individual fic, since it's mostly a speculation of things that could happen after the season finale.

Spoilers for episode seven. Enjoy angsty Matt.

 **Disclaimer** : I own nothing, Jon Snow.

* * *

It's not so much that he needs band aid strips or prescription pain killers. He just needs her. They haven't talked at all, not since the incident with Vladimir, and his harsh parting words before that… He's felt ashamed for how he ended that conversation, and having to ask her for help saving the man who had ordered her kidnapping. He left her the message to let her know he was all right, but never heard anything back. He had treated his own wounds, but the gash in his heart where Claire used to be still ached, tonight more than ever.

Her presence has been like a soothing salve on his soul, she has tried to keep him grounded in his quest for justice. In all honesty, Matt is not surprised Claire hasn't called. He left her alone, telling her she shouldn't let herself fall in love with him, only to call her to ask for the biggest, most unfair favor one could ask someone for. He can't even find anything really redeeming in the message he left her. Her life would have been so much easier if he had not fallen into it. He's tried so hard to balance on the thin line that is his code, but now he's teetering on the edge, so close to falling. _Maybe there's hope for you yet_. He can't let Stick win this.

He needs Claire. He can't keep her out of his thoughts. Her genuine concern for his principles, her sensitive fingers and hands slowly putting him back together. He's not sure if she's aware of it, but sometimes, she hums under her breath. It's fragmented bits of melodies unfamiliar to him, but they speak of emotions he hasn't truly felt for a woman in a long, long time.

He starts sifting through the rubble, clearing paths, making mental notes where there are pieces of broken glass and wooden shards littered. Most of all, he's trying to recall one of the tunes Claire sometimes hums. It's a soft melody, calming and centering. He closes his eyes, imagines himself back on her couch several weeks ago, ribs bruised and a long cut that starts out on his lower abdomen and wraps around up his back. She smelled vaguely of copper and antiseptic, hidden under the scent of vanilla and orchids. Her voice was barely a whisper, but the melody still carried, the low notes like a touch in and of themselves.

The jittering knots in his own mind slowly begin to unfurl in response to the memory. He can do this. Stick has no power over him, he can make his own decisions. The code is in place for a reason, well, several reasons really, but the most important one is that he does not want to find out what kind of man he is when he crosses the line. He fears that man, the darkness in the soul that dwells in him.

The melody floats through him, and he briefly lets go of the remnants of his coffee table. Part of him wants to leave the apartment, go to the hospital and find her, just to be near her again, to hear her snark about him getting into trouble. Matt's body stills, as if ready to spring out through the window. _No_. She's too good. She doesn't deserve this. He slowly gets up, tipping the couch so it's once again upright, and sits down, burying his face in his hands. He feels like shit. His ribs ache, and any relief the memory afforded him is gone. _Shit_. He berates himself for trusting Stick. For leaving Claire alone, for the message, for not contacting her again, at all. He should've just called. Talked to her, maybe even patched things up between them. Things could have been so different.

Taking a deep breath, Matt resumes piling up bits of the table. It's there that he finds it, the bracelet. He's not entirely sure where it came from, and why he would keep it so close to him. He's got several boxes in storage, some of the stuff from his college days, a couple of pieces of furniture from when his dad still lived. He would have expected to find it there, not here in this… chaos. The waxed paper has become a little brittle, but the memories attached to it has suffered no such deterioration. His first instinct is to crumple it up and toss it away with the rest of the rubble, but he can't. It's why he fights the way he fights, why he tries to not kill anyone. Buried deep under the harsh training, he's still that little boy, who made a promise to his father not to fight. Circumstances has forced him into the ring, but there are other ways to win than to completely end your opponent. He needs to remember that. The bracelet is a start, and Claire…

Saying how much he needs her to no one but himself is not gonna fix the problem.

He gives up with clearing the living room, going straight for the bedroom. It's relatively untouched by the fight, the screen that separates the room from the living room was punched outwards. He'll have to get a new one. He put it in a couple of weeks after he moved in, after nights of hearing too much, of feeling like the entire apartment was filled with the despair of people he wasn't sure he could help. Granted, putting in a screen door, no more than a glorified frame covered with paper, did nothing to block out the sound, but it helped him feel more in control. In that small, enclosed space, he could deal with the world.

He double checks to make sure there's nothing on the floor before he unlaces his boots and undresses. He doesn't even try to peel off his shirt carefully. Each stab of pain is penance for his recklessness and stupidity. He can practically hear Claire in his mind, telling him to take a painkiller and not torture himself. The cut above his eyebrow has stopped bleeding, but it still needs a band aid. It can wait. He just wants to lie down and drift off, unplug from the world. His body feels heavy as he lets himself fall onto the bed, the silk sheets providing a small relief to his oversensitive skin.

He hums Claire's tune until he falls asleep.

* * *

 **A/N** : Save a hobbit, leave a review! ;)


	4. Part 4

**A/N** : Well, that's all folks. The final part of this fic series. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, it really made my day whenever I'd log on and see someone had left me feedback. Officially, this fic is done, but seeing as Rosario Dawson has signed on for season two, this little nugget might come back to life in a year if we get more Clairedevil. :)

 **Disclaimer** : I own nothing, Jon Snow.

* * *

There was a moment when she hesitated. She had just closed the door behind her, and for a fraction of a second, she wanted to go back in. To hell with her plans. Inside was the man that had become as much a part of her life as her job at the hospital. A broken, lonely soul that she felt was a kindred spirit to her own.

When Foggy called, she was ready to say no, to not break her vow of not seeking him out until Matt himself initiated contact. But the tinge of panic in Foggy's voice was too much to ignore, and once she got there, she understood exactly why. She had to bite back a sob at the sight of him on the floor, more broken than she had ever seen him before. All through the night she worked to stabilize him, every now and then barking orders at his friend. Her heart skipped a beat every time Matt's breathing would hitch, only to feel a wave of relief when he finally let out a wheezy breath.

Walking out was the hardest thing she's had to do. Foggy begged her to stay, but she steadfastly said no, saying she had to go to work to save patients who actually realized they needed to go to a hospital. Only when she promised to come back later to check on Matt's wounds and that Foggy could call her if anything changed did he relent.

She had decided days ago to leave town. After everything that had happened (and not happened), she needed some time away, needed a change of scenery. Santino's mother, as much as she liked Claire, was getting more than a little irritated with her staying there. Perhaps she feared that Claire was cursed with bad luck. Either way, she had overstayed her welcome. She wanted a place of her own again. A cousin upstate was going on an extended vacation, and had been more than happy when Claire offered to house sit. Six months in a quiet, well-kept neighborhood, far from the battle-ravaged neighborhood of Hell's Kitchen. Not a snowball's chance in hell of finding a stranger half-dead in a dumpster. It was the perfect solution. Her boss reluctantly signed the papers for her leave application, saying that she would need to notify them within three months if she intended to return to work at the end of her leave. She had nodded, figuring she could easily slip out of the city and not think about anything NYC-related for three glorious months.

Lunch rolls around and she spends it redoing some of his sutures, wondering if fate was trying to tell her something.

 _Man falls into her dumpster. Man saves her from violent Russians. Man keeps fighting and she keeps sewing up his wounds. They kiss, they fight, they don't talk._ Claire hopes that she will be able to laugh at this some day, because right now she can barely bring herself to smile at him. She tries to sound neutral about leaving, when all she wants to do is scream at him, tell him how she wants to love him, wants to know every part of him, wants to coax smiles from his troubled features, wants to feel his fingers dance across her back again.

It hurts even more that he implies he wants her to stay, the way his face lights up with the possibility only to fade when she brings up their last meeting. There are still so many unresolved questions and loose ends between them. They never talked about the last time, and this… this is not the time.

 _"I didn't think I was ever gonna see you again. Not alive, not after that last call, the night half the city blew up."_

 _I left you a message… when it was over, I-_

 _"Yeah, you left a message."_

They're like a broken record, going over the same thing without moving forward. He has his convictions, like she has her own. As much as it hurts, she needs to go figure out what she has turned into, what her life has turned into. Maybe he can do the same. She has seen what kind of man he is, underneath the hood and the violence that follows him like a shadow. She sees it in the soft brown of his eyes as he apologizes to her.

 _"I'll always be there, when you really need me, to patch you up. Beyond that…"_

Her heart breaks with every step she takes towards the door. This city turned him into this; a man without fear, without any regard for himself. It's equal parts noble and idiotic, and she fears for what will happen to him when she's gone. He didn't have to proclaim himself a savior, not to her. She saw it in him from the beginning.

Back at the hospital, Claire quickly finishes up her rounds, filling out patient journals for whoever will be called in as her replacement. When she's done, she gathers her things, clearing out her locker and turns in her ID. She's almost at the exit, when she passes the hospital chapel. The door is ajar, and something in her pulls her inside. The dusky room is empty, with a couple of spotlights shedding dim light on the pews. The altar is adorned with a painting made of stained glass, depicting light flooding down from a pale sky. It's a peaceful place, and even though she's alone, she quietly pads up the aisle, taking a seat in the middle.

She rarely prays, but now she bows her head and signs the cross before bringing her hands together in prayer. She asks for guidance, for herself and for the man she forced herself away from. She asks that the Lord and every angel and every saint guide him, allowing her fear for his very being to bleed into her plea. She hardly notices when the first tear hits her clasped hands. Sniffling, Claire looks up. The room is still empty, but the air is somehow heavier, as if something or someone is there, listening.

"Please, keep him safe," she whispers. "Keep him safe until I get back."

Later, as she waits for the train to take her north, her heart still feels heavy. Her bags are all packed, filled with what she has been able to salvage from two break-ins. Two small cabin bags. Somehow, she imagined that her life here would have amounted to more, and something gnaws at her, like she's leaving something important behind.

On a whim, she calls him. As soon as she hears the dial tone, she panics. She's not that girl! She does not pine and call boys like this. Then, his voice crackles through, and her heart rushes. It takes her a couple of seconds to realize it's his voice mail. The short message is over before she can decide whether to hang up or not, and she's left with silence.

—

Matt doesn't notice the message until much later. He always switches his phone to silent mode when he goes to church, and after the talk with father Lantom he completely forgot about it. It's on a whim that he remembers, finding the apartment too quiet. Part of him is hoping Foggy will call him, even though he knows his friend is probably still furious with him. When he switches back from silent mode, the phone immediately proclaims, "Voicemail", and his hope soars. He is more than a little surprised when Claire's muted voice fills the room.

 _"Matt, I'm sorry, I just… Sorry. I'm gonna stop apologizing now."_ He hears her let out a shaky breath. _"I really don't want to leave. I have to, but I don't want to. I worry about you. I know I promised I'd be there, but I'm going to be a hell of a lot further away from you for a while, and I am scared. Please, don't do anything stupid. Please, go to the hospital every now and then. And if you get a concussion, ask Foggy to call you every half hour for the first day, even if it's annoying."_

Her voice cracks as she shoots off more medical advise, and Matt can almost feel his heart slowly break. Of all the people who could have found him in that dumpster, she had to be the one. He doesn't want her to leave, either, but for all the pain and trouble he has caused her, it's a wonder she hasn't left before now. In some ways, going through this fight alone was easier. No need to worry about anyone getting hurt but him. Now Claire has left and Foggy is not talking to him. Two of the most important people in his life are no longer there.

 _"Matt… Please, be there when I get back."_

Through the choppy line, he can hear a train coming in, and the message cuts after that. It's over. Claire's gone, for however long that may be. There could have been something between them, something to keep the both of them strong, and he blew it. He listens to the message again, his breath catching in time with the her voice breaking up. He wishes she would never have found him, never would have gotten tangled in his mess. He wishes for her back, for her challenging questions and nimble fingers and soft lips. He wishes he could rid the city of evil so she could come back and he wouldn't have to disappoint her or anyone else.

He meditates, trying to clear his mind, manage the pain. The rain outside provides a nice, white noise to drown out the outside world, but he can't seem to focus. Flashes of blood and violence and everything he has battled against fills his mind's eye. His stitches itch, as if missing the skilled touch of the person who put him back together again. He has to do something. Claire is right, there will always be a bad guy, someone who wreaks havoc on the city he has sworn to protect. But if he does nothing, there will never be the opportunity for prosperity, for peace. If he does nothing she might not ever return to him.

The box with his black outfit seems to emanate some ominous energy when he opens the closet doors. The boots feel heavier, the shirt almost constricting. He needs to find whoever made the armor for Fisk. Matt quickly changes clothes, listening one final time to Claire's message before heading out. He has a promise to keep.

 _Please, be there when I get back._

* * *

 **A/N** : Review to make a hobbit happy!


End file.
